I still remember my birth mom’s face. At the age of five, she was my world. She had lots of babies in her lifetime, but I was the youngest. She gave me the greatest gift that I could ever have and that was the ability to love and feel love. When she became terminally ill, all her babies were split up. No one ever explained to me why I needed to live apart from my mom, it just happened one day.
My adoptive parents, who were my foster parents at the time, would on very rare occasions take me up to see her in the hospital. For those few brief moments of visitation, I was back in the presence of someone I loved and knew loved me back. When it came time to leave, my heart would ache and yearn to stay with her.
The last visit I remember well because it was the last time I was able to see her smile at me. That made it memorable in itself; but even more so was the car ride home that night. I somehow could sense in her that she would not be there much longer, and I wanted with all my being to spend just a little bit more time with her.
On the car ride home, I just could not hold in my feelings any longer and had an emotional outburst that my adoptive parents reminded me of all throughout the rest of my childhood and well into my adult years.
Through my tears and a lump in my throat, I blurted out. “I hope we all get into a car wreck and die”. Truly that is what I felt. I had to spend the rest of my life being guilted by those words because it had hurt the feelings of my adoptive parents. Not one lick of compassion or understanding but there certainly was a paddling for it when we got home. I highly doubt that this was ever shared with my birth mom.
Reflection
Although they were both schoolteachers, neither adoptive parent thought that some counseling for me would be helpful. For whatever reason, they just could not relate. I could not even bring up my feelings or talk about my mom; even after she passed away the next spring.
Their reaction both in the moment and moving forward from that point were not the acts of loving parents. I have to wonder if they would have treated a child of their own that same way.
You can say the “I love you” phrase a thousand times but even kids can sense the difference between love and resentment. I spent many of my growing up years contemplating suicide. In my young mind at least I could be with my birth mom again. Even though those feelings began to fade after I found God, the occasional thought would linger. Further events would only prove that the one parent I knew who loved me unconditionally was gone for good, and the people who “took me in” did not value me or understand me.